“Now don’t you be insulting my beer in the form of a question. Schlitz is back, honey. I made them fix it. l can show you my letter.”

And it went on like that until Monday, when the small matter of Murray not actually having a ride to the stadium began to press on him. He knew she could make this miserable for him. So he opted for the no eye-contact direct approach, over the phone.

“Helen?”

“Yo. Murray.”

“I have a little problem,” he confessed

“Oh this ought to be good.”

“You remember Biv?”

“Help me,” she said.

“Eddie Bivers, Biv, I’m sure I introduced you.”

“Right,” Helen acknowledged. “Biv. I thought he died.”

“Yeah, and the thing was, um, Biv was my ride. When I’d go to the game.”

Helen had to let that sink in.

“Oh. Oh!” she finally said. “I get it. You want me to drive to the game.”

“Well, that’s…”

“You want me to drive to the game,” she said, adjusting her needle.
“You want me. To drive you. To the game.”

“That would be one way to frame it,” he said, just wanting the skit to be over.

“Murray the Man,” she kept going, now with a rhythm in her voice. “Wants a dame. To drive, The Man, to the game.”

She could barely contain her delight.

“Look,” he said. “It’s not like I’m asking you to buy the bratwurst.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” she giggled as she released him, and placed him back in the water, so to speak. “I gotta go now. You’re making me really hungry.”